


Great are our Sins

by orphan_account



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Sort Of, Werewolves, elements of torture, this is also sort of a post s01e06 fix-it fic, you just gotta trust me on this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23680897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: DISCONTINUEDJaskier gets himself into trouble.A murder happens (well, happened).Geralts hunts a werewolf.If you've seen that one scene™ from Knightfall you know where this is going. Basically I wanted to write my own take on it with poor Jaskier, as I've seen a couple of people do, but it got a lot more complicated than necessary and evolved into a whole-arse mystery with heavy focus on torturing Jaskier and Geralt taking care of him. We all love some good hurt/comfort, don't we?
Relationships: (mentioned) - Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 80





	1. Prelude: A rude awakening

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, this has been in the works for quite a while. I wouldn't exactly say I'm proud of it, but I've spent too much time on it to give up now.  
> Chapter 2 of this is almost finished, and after that there should be two more, but those might take quite a while longer to be written and posted because I'm taking part in a Beginner Bang for another fandom as a writer and I really, really need to work on that.
> 
> Thanks to Marti for looking this over for me when I was doubting my coherency, and to the lovely people on the Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang server for encouraging me to write and doing sprints with me.

The door to Jaskier's shabby room at the local inn is forced open with a crash, wood splintering against wood as it hits the wall. The sound has him awake and sitting upright in bed within seconds, staring dumbfoundedly at the two men advancing on him from the doorway. Before he can properly gather his thoughts into a question, rough hands pull him off the bed and he is crowded against the flimsy wall, one pair of eyes fixing him menacingly over the shoulder of the first man, whose fist buries itself in Jaskier's gut that moment, leaving him bent over double and wheezing. Another blow, this time delivered by a strong knee to the side of his face, sends him to the floor, cursing and sputtering as he curls up on his side, squinting up at the man looming over him. The scant light inside the room hides most of his features, but his laboured breathing, almost a growl, tells Jaskier that there is little reasoning with this particular individual. He seeks out the shape of the other man in hopes of some reprieve, but a kick in the ribs forces the air out of him yet again just as he opens his mouth to speak.

'You don't get to come here, take advantage of our hospitality and then go and take one of our own's wife from him, you son of a whore!' His assailant roars and spits on Jaskier in emphasis.

_ Ah _ . Realisation finally dawns on him. Jaskier peers at the bed that he had shared with a rather plump, but comely lady that night. He should have guessed something was off from the furtive glances she kept stealing over her shoulder as they snuck into the inn through the back and up to his room, but he had been too eager, too charmed by her low chuckle as her warm hand held onto his. Well, fuck.

'Look, I'm sorry, but I didn't know--' He doesn't get to finish because he is hauled on his feet roughly then, dragged out of the room and pushed down the stairs unceremoniously before he can even finish the thought. The tavern's parlour is empty, but there are voices outside, a few torches illuminate the faces of a small group of men who have gathered in front of the building. They turn to him, dark looks on their faces, as he stumbles out into the dirt, the rough hand fisted in the back of his shirt shoving and pulling at the same time. A short distance away a couple of women stare at him with apprehension, one of them sobbing in the arms of another who is trying to comfort her. The mix of pure hatred and fear in her eyes as Jaskier meets her glare makes his skin prickle. His unfortunate conquest from earlier is nowhere to be seen.

Jaskier is dragged over to where the men have assembled, their tight ranks dissipating in favour of getting a good look at him and the new arrivals.

‘We found the bastard in his room, sleeping,’ a voice snarls at his back, drawing shouts of anger and exclamations of disbelief from the small crowd.

Jaskier squirms against the grip the brute has on his chemise and to his surprise is let go. He stumbles forward a little, finding himself face to face with a menacing scowl as he looks up.

‘You didn’t think we wouldn’t find out, did you?’ The voice is a low rumble compared to the hysterical ranting of his previous attacker, but it feels no less threatening for it.

Jaskier gulps and takes a step back, starting a tentative retreat, but he collides with the shape of another big, angry man, and suddenly he’s surrounded with nowhere to run.

‘Well,’ he starts, trying to chuckle lightly, but it catches in his throat. He certainly didn’t expect them to find out so soon. Or the fuss the whole village was going to kick up over one night’s escapade.

‘Look, I’m really sorry, I didn’t know she was taken, otherwise I wouldn’t have--’ well, that’s a lie, better not go there. ‘I’ll be out of your hair in no time, if you’ll just let me grab my lute and I’ll be on my way, you won’t ever hear from me again, I swear. No need for… all this.’ He gestures vaguely around him.

Instead of the placating effect Jaskier had hoped his words would have the men seem to have gotten even angrier, though, if that was even possible, and his heart drops as it’s starting to sink in that he probably won’t get out of this with just a kick in the arse and a promise not to return. What kind of shithole has he landed himself in here?

One of the men spits at his feet and Jaskier yelps, more in surprise than anything else.

‘You don’t seriously think we’ll let a fucking murderer go just like that, do you?’

Jaskier starts. ‘Wait, what?’

The man speaking turns toward another villager. ‘Get the women out of here, Arend.’

Dread settles in Jaskier’s stomach like cold lead. He tries to get the man’s attention back on him as his companion turns to leave and gather up the women.

‘Hold on a minute-- Murderer?’ He’s got a  _ very _ bad feeling about this. ‘Who’s been murdered?’ The links click together in his mind before anyone can answer. ‘Oh no. Oh no, no, nonono. You can’t seriously think that  _ I _ \--?  _ No _ !’

He suddenly feels weighed down under all the eyes on him.

Arend returns and Jaskier is grabbed roughly again, this time by the arm. He tries to free himself, but another pair of hands latches onto his other arm and he is dragged along as the group starts moving. He can’t see where, but they don’t walk for long before they arrive at a secluded space between some houses. There is a small shelter at the edge of it, metal rings let into the wooden beams that support the shabby roof and a water trough right next to it. One of the men lets go of Jaskier and he is shoved to the ground roughly. He scrambles onto his back and into a crouching position. He is crowded against the structure and roughly pulled up again. The first punch hits his jaw with so much force Jaskier thinks he might have thrown his neck out. He tries to shield his face, but fists and boots seem to reach him from all sides. A particular mean blow to his gut has him curl up on the sandy ground and retch. He is given some space as he kneels on his hands and knees, dry heaving until tears start streaming from his eyes. When he catches his breath and manages to look up again, squinting against the light of torches, he sees that the sudden halt of violence wasn’t due to his situation at all. Another man has arrived and the mob turns to him as if in anticipation. He exchanges some quiet words with a couple of them and they scamper off. This man must be a figure of authority and Jaskier sees his chance. He tries to get to his feet, eager to make his case to someone who  _ isn’t _ a fucking lunatic, but he is shoved roughly and collides with the wooden pillar behind him, dropping to his knees again with a wheeze. He waits for the man to approach him, but he never does, just tending to the villagers, talking to them, putting his hands on shoulders, placating, but never making any move to address the poor bard that has been beaten to the ground over a very, very bad misunderstanding.

‘Alderman!’ someone calls, and the important man turns towards them. It’s the men that previously left after talking to him, and they are carrying something. Rope, Jaskier realises with dread. They’re not going to string him up right then and there without a trial, are they? Gods, he hopes not.

The men with the rope approach him and Jaskier scrambles to his feet again, swaying a little and supporting himself against the pole at his back with one hand, while reaching out his other arm defensively.

'L-look, fellas, can't we talk about this first? Have a -- a proper investigation or something? Hear my side of the story?  _ Please _ ?' he keeps babbling on like this while the men crowd him against the wooden pole, completely ignoring everything he is saying.

He is pushed down and his arms are pulled roughly around the pole. Thick, coarse rope tightens around his wrists unpleasantly, making him wince. At least it doesn't look like they're about to hang him. Yet.

Any of his attempts to talk to the men,  _ reason _ with them, are duly ignored as if following orders, he doesn't even get a rise out of them with his rambling like before, they just tie him up and leave him there, their jaws set in a clear effort to restrain their tempers, and somehow this is worse than before, which is saying a lot because Jaskier  _ hates  _ being beaten up -  _ who doesn't  _ \- but the silent treatment is ominous and threatening in a way that makes him squirm.

Most of the men have left by now, returned to their homes or gone to take care of the body, presumably. Jaskier shudders at the thought of it. That woman had been so alive just a couple of hours ago, and now she is dead. Gruesomely murdered from what he’s been able to gather.. He doesn’t even know how, exactly. Not that he needs to, the situation he’s found himself in is bad enough as it is. Having that additional information might only make it worse for him if he trips over his overeager tongue, as he so often does. Jaskier does feel sorry for the woman and he hopes that whoever did this to her will be brought to justice, so long as he isn't falsely "brought to justice" first.

_ There's probably a song in there somewhere _ , his brain helpfully supplies. Not  _ helpful _ , Jaskier mentally argues back at himself.

His mind is racing, trying to think of a way out of this, anything he might say come morning when hopefully tempers have cooled and someone will finally listen to him. Nothing comes to him. He suddenly feels exhausted and very tired, the adrenaline finally receding and reminding him that it  _ is _ the middle of the night and he's just had a  _ very  _ rude awakening and was literally dragged out of bed. He's in dire need of some sleep, but he's doubtful he'll get any.

He watches as the last of the torches disappear into the night, and he is left alone in the dark. He is starting to feel a chill now and shivers lightly. It's not cold and some of the previous day's heat still lingers on the ground, but he was sweating a lot earlier and he feels clammy, exposed to the cooler night breeze like this. He leans his head back against the wood and tries to fill his head with thoughts of a warm bed and soft furs covering him. It takes a long time for sleep to find him, but eventually it does.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **!! Please read the end notes for content warnings !!**
> 
> The whump begins! Well, it already kind of began in the last chapter, but it gets worse.  
> Some of the dialogue of a certain scene very closely follows the dialogue of the scene in Knightfally it is based on, just in case anyone notices and feels the need to point it out. I am very aware of this.  
> I had to split one chapter into two again, so hopefully the next part will go up soon, but I'm still pretty swamped with real life stress and other projects, so I make no promises. Encourage me with kudos and a comment? ♡

Dust kicks up from Roach's hooves as she drags them on the well-travelled road. Despite it being midday there is not a soul in sight, and while Geralt enjoys not being scowled at by other travellers, he can't shake the feeling of unease that is nagging at his subconscious, fuelled by thirst and the scratch of the dry air in his throat. He grabs for his water skin and finds it almost empty, the little bit of warm water still left in it isn't much of a relief. He hopes he'll come across a source of water soon. Roach must be parched as well.

At a fork in the road he suddenly pulls on the reins and halts his horse. He had planned to keep on going straight ahead, but there's a strange pull, a light thrumming that seems to tug at the medallion around his neck that moves him to steer Roach onto the narrower path.

***

Jaskier awakes with a start. The jolt of his body earns him a sharp stab of pain up his arms. He tries to move them and finds that they are tied around a wooden pole behind his back with thick rope, aching from being held in this uncomfortable position for… how long has it been? Jaskier raises his head and squints at the sun. It looks to be around midday. He's been out for most of the night and the morning, then, sweet bliss of unconsciousness. He swallows thickly, trying not to cough and draw attention to himself. Gods, he is  _ thirsty _ . He tries if he can strain against his bonds enough to reach the edge of the water trough that is installed nearby, but he gets only far enough to see that it's empty and probably has been for some time, it's completely and utterly dried out.

He leans his head back against the pole with a frustrated huff and sweeps the area with his eyes from beneath lowered lashes. He can hear people walking around distantly and catches a glimpse of a woman carrying a basket full of laundry across the village square. She doesn't turn to look down the narrow alley towards the small clear space behind some buildings that Jaskier is tied up in. Part of him is glad for it after the treatment he received last night, the other part sorely mourns the chance to beg for water.

His hope flares for a split second when the back door of the house opposite of him opens, but immediately dissipates again when he sees who is descending the wooden stairs. It's the important-looking man from last night, the one who completely ignored him. Well, technically they all ignored Jaskier, but that was only after this particular individual had a talk with them. Jaskier supposes he should be grateful because that at least had stopped the abuse raining on him for the time being, but all he can think of right now is how dry his throat is and how much he needs  _ some fucking water _ .

He croaks out his request as soon as The Important Guy - he must be a mayor or alderman - reaches him, followed by a shorter, burlier guy who immediately gives Jaskier the creeps when he registers his presence. The man oozes brutality. Once again Jaskier finds himself ignored and manhandled as he is roughly untied, his hope flaring up for only a moment before he is barked at to stand up, a request he doesn’t follow quickly enough, and is roughly pulled to his feet by an already aching arm, only to be tied up again tightly enough to leave no space for sinking back down without chafing off a significant amount of skin and probably flesh as well. None of this bodes well, but this is his chance to make his case before the angry mob shows up again.

'Listen,' he starts, eyes flicking from one man to the other, 'this is all a big, a  _ huge  _ misunderstanding. If you'd just let me tell my side if the story--'

He is cut off with a slap across the face. 'We don't need any of your lies!' The words are spat at him with foul-smelling breath and droplets of actual spittle that hit his face unpleasantly. Jaskier cringes away from it, but there is no room to escape. A calloused hand grips his face, squishing his cheeks and forcing him to meet narrowed eyes that bore into him with unconcealed hatred. He freezes and his heart skips a beat, not in the good way, but in a 'I'm about to drop all the way down into your trousers' way.

'Alderman!' someone calls and Jaskier is let go, not without his head being shoved against the wood hard enough to be painful, though. He watches with dread as more men start to file into the space, taking the alderman's and his brutal lackey's attention. He recognises some of them from last night, and this really,  _ really  _ isn't looking good, is it? He feels like a rabbit trapped by a pack of wolves, except these people think that  _ he's  _ the wolf and they are the rabbits and that they're doing the right thing, which makes all of this even worse somehow. How is he going to talk his way out of this if no one is willing to listen?

***

Geralt’s unease only grows the farther he travels along the road. It’s peaceful enough, the occasional grouping of trees providing cool shade from the merciless sun. He rests for a while under one of them, filling his water skin at a small spring. Roach quenches her thirst and cools her legs in the water before they move on.

More trees start to line the road as he follows it, there are some fields to his left and what appears to be a forest a bit farther ahead, he can hear the dry leaves rustling in the warm wind. A rank smell mixes with the breeze, but it's not strong enough to discern yet. There are no people working on the fields, strangely enough, but he must be getting closer to a human settlement because wooden fences start cropping up more and more often, some of them broken down and lining empty meadows of dry grass. The smell of blood lingers there, but it's old and mostly faded by now, not providing Geralt with many clues as to what happened here. As he reaches the spot where the trees start growing denser, he notices a neat little cemetery sheltered beneath the very edge of the sparse forest.

There are fresh graves on the small hill, no older than a couple of weeks, perhaps. The now almost constant thrumming of Geralt's medallion tells him that the people buried there probably haven't fallen victim to illness or accidents, more likely something sinister lurking in the vicinity that might earn him dinner and a bed to sleep in, and Roach a comfortable stable for the night.

He keeps a close eye and ear on the treeline as they pass by. Whatever ails the people of this place isn't likely to be out and about at this time of day, but Geralt knows better than to stack his bets on probability.

An increased response from his medallion has him turning Roach left, into the forest. The rank smell is growing stronger with each step they advance into the trees, now very closely resembling that of wet dog, just more putrid. A werewolf, then.

Geralt urges Roach forward, prepared to draw his silver sword any second, should he need to, but the forest is eerily quiet except for the leaves crunching underfoot and rustling gently above him.

***

The whip cracks through the air, closely followed by Jaskier’s cry ringing in his own ears. He tries to catch his breath, seeking the face of the alderman who stands behind the executioner, watching him sharply.

‘Please, sir, I didn’t---’ he clenches his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, straining to keep breathing through the pain of every inhale. He is pretty sure his legs are trembling, but the firm ties at his back are holding him up against the pole.

Something crashes into the side of his face with incredible force, cutting his cheek and splitting his lip.

'You piece of shit, stop denying it!' someone yells into his ear and Jaskier winces, unable to move away from the assault on his ear drums, a faint ringing replacing the voice as soon as it fades.

'You're only making this harder on yourself, stop lying and get it over with.' A calmer voice addresses him from the front, steely and self-righteous.

Jaskier raises his head and gapes at the alderman.

_ 'I'm _ making this-- you won't even  _ listen _ to me! I had nothing to do with that poor woman's death, and I never forced her to do  _ anything _ !' he yells, voice trembling with despair.

'The  _ fuck _ is wrong with you?!'

A small incline of the alderman's head and the whip whizzes through the air again, tearing into Jaskier's soft flesh and the edges of his ripped chemise as he screams and whimpers.

'Stop,' he begs, 'for fuck's sake,  _ please _ !'

‘You yourself have the ability to stop this. Tell the truth now or keep suffering unnecessarily. Which will it be?’

Jaskier scoffs, but it sounds more like a sob than a laugh, bitter and barely masking his despair. He screws his eyes shut and presses his lips together, weakly shaking his head. He tries to brace himself for the next blow, which is delivered promptly, but he still cries out loudly, feeling like his body is going to rip apart if he has to bear any more of this.

He tries to keep his laboured breathing shallow, tries to calm himself by counting down the seconds in his head. He needs to think clearly, there has to be a way out of this, other than-- no, he doesn’t want to think about that. There has to be a way, he just needs to  _ calm down _ .

The next lash takes him by surprise, effectively ruining his efforts, and he bites his tongue, choking on the blood that fills his mouth as he cries out reflexively. He coughs until he is sure he is going to pass out, the edges of his vision darkening and blurring, but cruel fate grants him no such mercy. As his frantic wheezing starts to slow, the voice next to his left ear is clear as day. Challenging, venomous. A promise of violence, of more pain to come.

‘So? Are you ready to confess yet?’

Panic swallows up what remains of his earlier resolve. They really won’t stop until he confesses. They’re giving him the choice between a slow and agonising death by torture, thirst and starvation if he stays alive long enough, or a quicker, cleaner one, by hanging presumably. Jaskier chokes back a whimper as the realisation settles in his chest like ice. He feels like he can’t breathe.

‘Please…’ he chokes out. His eyes seek the alderman again, unfocused, pleading. A blurry shape raises a hand, halting the man already preparing to lash him again. The words tumble from Jaskier’s mouth like pebbles on a landslide, pain and despair urging him on, his body is burning with pain and exhaustion, his mind begging for him to give in.  _ Anything to make it stop _ . 

‘I did it.’ he whispers at first, then raises his voice and all but yells at the men before him. ‘I did it, okay? I fucked her and then I killed her, so that her husband wouldn’t know!’ Drops of blood and spit fly from his mouth and his voice cracks as he shouts. The rational part of his brain screams at him in horror and his mouth snaps shut as shouts of ‘I knew it!’, ‘Hang him!’ and other, more colourful suggestions on just how to punish him for a crime that he didn't commit erupt from around him.

_ What did I do? _

***

The werewolf is sluggish from sleep, its reflexes a little slower than they would usually be, a fact which Geralt welcomes. Werewolves are tough opponents at any time, big, looming, feral and driven by rage and bloodlust, and this one is an impressive specimen to begin with. It's well over two heads taller than Geralt, the straggly fur that is barely hiding its lean, steely muscles is matted with dried blood and no doubt other unpleasant fluids and substances, judging by the stench. Its claws are long and dirty, and its snarl reveals stained and broken teeth, each one the size of a decent-sized dagger and probably just as sharp.

Geralt circles the beast slowly, drawing his sword in half circles, preparing to counter an attack. He doesn't have to wait long. The werewolf lunges at him with a growl and Geralt leaps aside to dodge, slashing at the creature and leaving a gash in its upper arm. The werewolf howls with rage, turning its head to lick the wound once before its eyes flash and it throws itself at Geralt again, who throws himself to the ground just in time for the sharp claws to miss his throat and scratch at the armour on his back again. It's not enough to completely penetrate the leather, but it's close enough and Geralt refocuses, training all his senses on the movement of the monster. It slithered to a halt a little ways from the patch of bare earth in front of the cave, trying to find leverage on the slippery leaves as it prepares to charge again, but Geralt doesn't give it a chance, sprinting to meet it and thrusting his blade into its snarling maw. The werewolf makes a sound between a roar and a howl, choked by the blood that's flooding its throat, and Geralt throws his weight against his sword again. The werewolf's skull gives with a nasty crack and its eyes roll back, it goes rigid, then completely limp. Geralt steps back, panting. The fight was quick, but intense, something he no doubt owes to the time of day and the element of surprise that for once seems to have been on his side. He takes his time returning to Roach and fetching her. He retrieves his sword from the werewolf, considering his options for a trophy to show whoever may be willing to pay for Geralt ridding them of this pest. He goes with the head, they usually make the most impression, and there's no way anyone could accuse him of trying to con them with a harmless creature's body part.

He cleans his face with a rag and wipes as much of the blood as he can from his armour and weapon. He'll clean them properly later, when he is settling down for the night, Roach is taken care of and the nasty werewolf appendage out of his hands, hopefully replaced by some coin.

***

The alderman steps forward and raises his hand, quieting the shouts to the occasional murmur. He approaches Jaskier, the man with the whip stepping aside and joining his brethren who clap him on the shoulders for a job well done. Jaskier tears his eyes away from them, shaking. He can’t tell if it’s from fear, anger, pain or sheer exhaustion, but the trembling won’t cease no matter how hard he tries to compose himself as the alderman stares him down, a grave and thoughtful look on his face.  _ ‘Pretentious bastard’ _ Jaskier wants to spit at him, but he doesn’t. He is at this man’s mercy now, if there’s any chance left-- the alderman abruptly turns around, apparently finished with his assessment of Jaskier, and addresses the crowd.

‘We will hang the murderer when at sunrise tomorrow!’ he announces. Jaskier's last shred of hope evaporates into thin air. There is some cheering and calling for hands to help build a scaffold. Any hope he had of getting out of this alive, somehow convincing the alderman of his innocence in absence of the angry mob, dissipates.

Hearing it said out loud is so much worse than he imagined, and the finality of it suddenly strikes him with full force, driving the air out of his lungs with a strangled sob as his head drops on his chest, and he is honest-to-goodness crying now, all dams finally torn down as tears flow freely, burning and stinging in the cuts and bruises on his face. The ropes around his wrists are loosened for a brief moment and he is manhandled into a kneeling position on the ground before they tighten again, drawing a groan of pain from him in-between sobs. Someone says something to him in a contemptuous tone, but Jaskier doesn't hear the words, his head is pounding and his heart racing, blood rushing in his ears and drowning out the sound of people slowly clearing out, leaving him alone to await the carrying out of his sentence.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As previously suggested by reference to Knightfall, Jaskier is whipped and beaten in this chapter.  
> He is forced into a false confession.  
> There is a vague implication that he has been accused of having raped the murdered woman, but nothing is explicitly mentioned.
> 
> There are also some gory details of Geralt's fight with a werewolf.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second part of what was supposed to be chapter two!  
> I'll be taking a break from this fic while I work on other things, unless inspiration sneaks up on me and hits me over the head.

Geralt reaches the village as dusk is starting to set in, the werewolf’s head fastened to the saddle behind him with a rope. It stinks of dirty dog, putrid blood and decay, and Geralt will be glad to get rid of it. He doesn’t spot a notice when he passes the local tavern, but he imagines the people will be grateful to be rid of the beast slaughtering their brethren nonetheless. Even if the pay isn’t handsome, it should afford him a little comfort and a couple of fresh supplies for the road. He stops some men dragging heavy planks and wooden beams towards the main square to get directions to the alderman’s house. One of them sets down his load on the dusty ground and approaches Geralt, who is still perched on top of Roach.

'You might want to take that to the alderman.' he says, nodding at the severed head.

Geralt grunts his agreement, and the man gives him thorough directions, which Geralt tries to commit to memory.

When he moves to turn and leave, Geralt stops him again.

'What's all this?' he asks, sweeping his eyes over the building supplies.

The man considers him curiously for a moment before he answers.

‘There’s to be a hangin’ in the morn. Bloody murderer on top of everything else, but he’s getting what’s coming to him soon enough.’ He spits on the ground.

‘Everything else?’ Geralt asks, lifting an eyebrow. Roach stamps on the ground impatiently and he reaches down to pat her neck.

‘Aye,’ the man confirms, indicating the severed head behind Geralt with a nod of his head. ‘With the beast and the drought, times have been tough. Mighty grateful to ya for taking care of one of those problems, at least.’ He turns with an air of finality, lifts up the plank he’d been carrying and inclines his head to Geralt before setting off again. Geralt returns the gesture, humming thoughtfully as he turns Roach around and towards the alderman’s house.

The settlement isn’t large enough to call itself a town, but it’s bigger than most villages this far off the main road that Geralt has encountered, and it takes him a while to find the right building even with the directions he was given. He ties Roach to the veranda with a promise to return soon and grabs the werewolf’s head off of her back. When he knocks on the door it swings open of its own accord, revealing the view of a large, clean room. A long table with benches on each of its longer sides sits in the centre to the right, empty but for two half-burnt candles, a piece of parchment, an inkwell and a ragged feather quill. Whoever was planning to set to work here seems to have been interrupted because the quill is dirty, but dry, the piece of parchment still untouched by ink. The house is quiet, there aren’t children running around or a woman busying herself in the kitchen, the hearth has been left cold in the heat of the day. Geralt stands in the doorway undecidedly until a voice from somewhere above him catches his attention.

‘Come in, come in, my good man!’ it beckons, followed by a large man jogging down the stairs in a far corner of the room. Dark salt and pepper hair falls almost to his shoulders, tugged behind his ears. A thick beard obscures the lower half of a weathered face that speaks of hardship and battle. Geralt notices that the man is slightly taller than him as he crosses the room and comes to stand a few steps away from him. He's not as broadly built as Geralt, but his stature is impressive and it's obvious that he's no stranger to physical work, a rare treat in politicians of any kind.

‘Alderman Turriald?’ Geralt asks, shifting his grip on the head he is carrying.

'The very same,' replies the alderman. 'And who do I have the pleasure with?' His expression is mostly friendly, but there is a hardness and wariness to his gaze as he studies Geralt, his dirty, bloodstained armour and tangled hair.

'Geralt... of Rivia. I'm a witcher.' Geralt says. He lifts the head. 'I took care of your… werewolf problem.'

The alderman pales a little as he takes in the beasts contorted features.

'So I see.' he says. 'I guess you'll want some form of payment?'

Geralt doesn't say anything.

It seems to have been a rhetorical question anyway because Turriald walks over to a large tapestry decorating the wall and pulls out a small chest from a hidden space behind it, retrieving a sack of coin before putting it back.

'We don't have much to offer in these dire times,' he says as he hands it to Geralt, 'but I'll ensure you're granted a stay at the inn and a hot meal for your trouble. Thank you, truly. It seems we've been cursed by misfortune… a monster, a drought, and last night the wife of an esteemed member of our community was raped and killed by a travelling bard we had taken in in hopes of him lifting some spirits with his music and stories.' He shakes his head gravely.

Geralt doesn't want to ask, and so he doesn't. He inclines his head in silent thanks, but just as he turns to leave he spots the lute. It is tugged into a corner, leaning against the wall, but Geralt recognises the delicate carvings, the shine of the well-kept wood, the gold detailing. Memories flood him, along with the strong tug of guilt and anxiety, pulling his mind back to a mountain top in Caingorn, to words sharp and heavy as a steel blade wielded in anger, and it feels like cold fingers close around his neck, cutting off his air. He stops dead in his track and turns slowly, his eyes glued on the lute before they snap back to the alderman sharply.

'Why do you have that lute?' he growls, even though he is starting to suspect, jerking his head in the direction of the instrument.

Turriald looks apprehensive at Geralt's intense reaction, but he tries to play it off. 'The bard.' he says as a manner of explanation. When Geralt neither moves nor replies he continues: 'It's such a beautiful and unique instrument, it would have been a shame to see it destroyed in an act of revenge. It wouldn't have changed anything and the bard has gotten his fill, I think his lute would be the least of his worries.' He sounds bitter as he speaks, but Geralt catches the glint in his eye as he eyes the precious instrument. He's sure that the alderman has figured it's most likely worth quite a lot of money.

‘Where is he?’ he asks.

The alderman frowns at him questioningly.

‘The bard.’ Geralt growls. He’s losing patience quickly, there’s a sense of urgency pushing at the back of his mind. ‘Where are you keeping him?’

The alderman’s frown deepens. ‘Look,’ he starts, ‘we are really grateful for your help, we truly are, but I don’t see how this prisoner is any of your concern. Please take your pay and leave.’

‘Where?!’ Geralt snarls, and Turriald flinches. He doesn’t reply, but the way his gaze flicks to the back door at the end of the room tells him everything he needs to know. He crosses the room in a few quick strides, ignoring any further attempts the alderman makes to stop him, and throws open the door.

Geralt steps outside, eyes immediately falling on the figure sitting slumped against one of the wooden pillars supporting a shelter, presumably for horses or other work animals, but currently unused as the empty water trough and general decrepit state of the structure suggest. Blood, sweat and the sour smell of fear hang heavy in the air as he approaches.

'What the hell did you do to him?' he growls, his eyes never leaving Jaskier's still form that jolts back to life at the sound of his voice, head raising and eyes widening as he goes completely rigid when they land on him, then his features contort into a miserable grimace as he spots the alderman who has followed Geralt outside.

Geralt whips around. 'I asked you a question!' he barks. ' _ What _ happened here?'

'He confessed…' the alderman starts, having the audacity to return his glare with the slightest hint of defiance as he dodges the question to justify himself.

'Of course he did!' Geralt spits at him. 'It doesn't look like you left him a  _ choice _ .' He throws his arm out, indicating Jaskier who has slumped back down, breathing shallowly and quickly, but still looking at him.

'I don't understand… you know this man?' the alderman asks, gaze flicking between them.

'Yes. He is not a murderer, nor would he ever force himself on anyone.' Geralt's eyes bore into him. 'No matter what you've made him say.'

'But he was with the victim the night she was murdered, they were seen together. We found her necklace in his room.'

Geralt has to employ all his willpower to not shove him into the wall and strangle him. 'Look,' he manages to grit though his teeth, ‘that isn’t worth shit. All you’ve got to go on is a confession that you forced out of him under torture.’ He holds up a hand to silence the alderman when he opens his mouth to speak again. ‘That’s not enough to have him executed in accordance with the law anywhere.’

'But the evidence--' the alderman starts, but Geralt cuts him off.

'Your so-called evidence suggests just as much that your murder victim cheated on her husband with the bard and he killed her for it. That possibility cross your mind or are you as stupid as the rest of them?'

For the first time, the shadow of a doubt creeps into the alderman's expression.

'He wouldn't.' he still argues, though.

'Neither would he.'

Geralt looks at Jaskier lying in the dirt, shivering despite the lingering heat of the day, smells how he reeks of blood, sweat and fear, and he knows that he needs to resolve this as quickly as possible. He could take Jaskier by force and flee the village, but then what? He's not equipped to care for an injured human without getting supplies first and he doesn't even know the extent of Jaskier's injuries or how weak he is. The next settlement is days away. He needs to buy them time. His decision made, he briefly turns back to the alderman.

'I'll ask him again. He won't lie to me.' Without waiting for an answer he turns and walks over to where Jaskier is tied up. He isn't looking at Geralt, instead his eyes are cast down, his lips pressed into a thin, trembling line.

Geralt gently lifts Jaskier’s head to look him in the eyes. His hair is longer than the last time he's seen him, falling over the tips of his ears and into his eyes in oily strands. His lashes and cheeks are crusted with dried tears, streaks visible in the dust and dried blood covering his face. He looks completely beaten and miserable.

‘Jaskier?’ Geralt asks, careful to keep his voice calm and level to not startle Jaskier further. The bard is already trembling, the stench of fear rolling off of him in waves.

'Geralt?' It's barely a whisper. 'What are--' His voice wavers and he swallows thickly. 'What are you doing here?' Jaskier's defeated tone pierces Geralt to his core and he wants to pour his heart out to him then and there, apologise and beg for forgiveness if necessary, but he takes a deep breath instead and forces himself to push on, ignoring Jaskier's question in favour of moving things along. There will be time to catch up - and apologise - later.

'Did you kill that woman?' he asks, keeping his gaze steady and as neutral as possible.

Geralt knows the answer to his question, but he wants the alderman to hear it, too.

‘No.’ Jaskier chokes out, shaking his head ever so lightly, fresh tears gathering in his eyes. ‘Geralt,  _ please _ . I didn’t. I didn't kill anyone. Geralt... I don't want to die.’

Geralt looks back at the alderman who is watching their exchange, straining to hear.

'Say it again, louder.' Geralt prompts, and Jaskier obliges, biting back a sob as he shakes in Geralt's hand, hot tears spilling onto his fingers.

'I didn't.. I didn't kill her.'

Geralt nods slowly, holding Jaskier's wild gaze.

'I won't let you die.' he says quietly. It isn't just a promise, he is stating it as a fact. He wills Jaskier to believe it.

Geralt lets go of Jaskier’s face and gets back on his feet, turning around to the alderman who is looking at him with evident worry despite his own intimidating stature, fear and doubt edging into his expression as his eyes flick to Jaskier, then back to Geralt.

‘There you have it.’ Geralt growls through his teeth, eyes boring into the alderman’s with burning intensity as he fights for composure. If he doesn’t handle this properly he’ll put his chance of getting Jaskier out of this situation quickly and with as little fuss as possible into jeopardy. Luckily the alderman looks about ready to crack, he is looking more guilty by each passing second.

_ Good _ , thinks Geralt. He sincerely hopes that the guilt will keep the man awake at night for the rest of his days. He gives him a last warning glare as he unsheathes a dagger from his belt before he hurries back to Jaskier. He cuts the ropes binding his hands carefully. Jaskier's breath hitches when they release and his arms drop heavily, but he doesn't move and lets Geralt remove the remains of the ties from his wrists. They are bruised and swollen and Geralt takes care to be gentle with his touch. He'll thoroughly examine and treat the wounds when he's got Jaskier resting and cleaned up a little, he just needs to find a safe, clean space to do that. The inn is too far off, he doesn't want to cause the bard any more unnecessary pain. He remembers a wooden bench covered in furs near the kitchen area of the alderman's house, close to the hearth. That'll have to do for now, he decides, plus he'll be able to boil water while keeping a close eye on Jaskier. He doesn't want to leave him alone in this state.

Geralt loops an arm under Jaskier's armpit and around his back and pulls him up, supporting most of his weight as he stumbles on his bare feet, his numb legs almost giving out were it not for Geralt by his side, holding him up.

'Come on.' Geralt says almost softly, starting to take a step towards the house, but Jaskier's feet won't listen to him. He jerks forward as he is dragged along, tripping, and Geralt catches him, eyebrows drawing together and forming a deep crease in his forehead at Jaskier's strangled cry of pain as strain is put on the gashes marking his stomach. Geralt can smell fresh blood starting to flow.

'Fuck.' The bard curses. His voice is raspy and quiet, clearly a strain on his usually strong vocal cords.

Geralt fights the urge to drop Jaskier then and there and flatten the whole village to the ground in a rage, except that's not fair, not to Jaskier and not to the innocent bystanders to the idiocy of the alderman, an enraged husband and his idiotic peers. He forces himself to breathe slowly, in and out, with deep breaths, until his heartbeat slows down again.

'Get me clean water and a healer,  _ now _ .' he growls at the alderman, who flinches as he is addressed, strong man that he is, and Geralt carefully slides his other arm beneath Jaskier's knees, scooping him up against his chest and making for the alderman's house's back entrance without another word.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Geralt is a good nurse and the boys have a talk.


End file.
